A Little Bird Told Me
by Safiyyah
Summary: Sherlock & John are after a criminal in a club. The suspect escapes, and they are trapped in a massive crowd of people. They can't move so they decide to dance together. Why would Sherlock let a criminal run free? The man is up to something.


"Sherlock, quick! I think that's him!"

A flash of a person darted across the room just as the lights were turned off, and Sherlock took off after it, with John on his heels.

Simultaneously, the DJ revved up the crowd and, like flies to a lustrous light, a mass of people surrounded the two men every which way, quite literally stopping them in their tracks.

"Oh, just great. How—" two people had trapped John, and he bounced off their backs carelessly like a ping pong ball. He grunted and, as the heel of a woman's stiletto plunged into his trainers, he managed to yell out a perfectly enunciated, "Jesus fuck!"

Sherlock was only several meters away, bobbing involuntarily (and hilariously, John had to admit) with the crowd. He was sandwiched between the backs of two rather beefy men, who didn't seem to even notice Sherlock's slender frame and must have mistook it for air.

"John, I can't move!" Sherlock mouthed, struggling to free himself.

"Just hold on. I'll try to—" When someone's pointy elbow pushed roughly into his left shoulder, he yelped in pain and grimaced.

That was the last straw. He took a resigned breath then proceeded to push people aside like he was plowing through tall shrubbery in the wild. The hapless sods he'd pushed stumbled and bumped into their fellow dancers and cursed John out, using all kind of creative obscene phrases and words (John couldn't hear them, but could tell they were ranting because of the unsightly, spastic movements of their mouths).

He sighed, relieved to finally have his own little space and prepared himself for his next task—rescuing Sherlock. The battle wasn't over.

"Take my hand," John yelled over the noise and grazed his arm right over a woman's exposed bosom. She caught his eye and winked, then proceeded to lick her lips slowly, methodically, while she stared unwaveringly John. John gave a half-embarrassed, half-disgusted smile in return then immediately turned his attention to Sherlock.

After fumbling around a bit, their hands met and, with all of John's might, he pulled Sherlock toward him, flogging people with the tall detective in the process. They were now resting chest-to-chest in John's small, proud, man-made space.

"This music makes me want to rip my hair out," Sherlock said while looking down, wild-eyed, at John. John watched a woman ghost Sherlock's arse with her hand, presumably by accident. "…and I think my person has been violated in over ten different ways since we've been here."

This is the point where John had to laugh and laugh hard. The situation was so ludicrous. He and Sherlock Holmes were stuck together, personal space completely destroyed, unmoving, in a sea of young people dry humping and grinding each other to terrible music. Oh, and they'd just let a criminal run free to wreak havoc on society.

They didn't say anything for awhile, just stood there figuring out what to do. John was thinking about the best way to escape the mob of people, craning his neck frantically in every direction. The crowd seemed to be spontaneously hatching from some phantom mother, further encapsulating the two men in the sea of fledglings.

Sherlock stood up a bit straighter, scanning the crowd silently. "It's useless. We'll just have to wait."

John sighed his trademark long-suffering sigh. "And stand here like we're waiting for a bus? I don't think so."

"What do you suggest we do?"

"Oh, I don't know. Seeing as we're in a club and there's music playing maybe we should—and call me crazy—dance!" He began to move to the rhythm.

Sherlock observed him, and John could have sworn he noted a tinge of playfulness in that singular look. "Oh stop it John, you're embarrassing yourself." Why was he smiling now?

"You're the one standing out by not doing anything," John snapped.

_She moves her body like a Cyclone and she makes me wanna do it all night long. Going hard when they turn the spotlights on—_

Sherlock groaned. "Did they pay monkeys to come up with this cacophonous drivel?"

John continued as if he didn't hear the complaint, "All you need to do is—" without thinking he grabbed Sherlock's hips roughly. He gasped quietly to himself, realizing what he'd done, and quickly retracted.

"God, sorry. Must be a habit of mine or something. Went to the club a lot back in the day, ha ha."

Sherlock narrowed his slate grey, calculating eyes at his friend, but said nothing as he started to sway slowly to the beat. John didn't have it in him to meet the intimidating gaze, so he looked out into the sea of sweaty, skimpily-dressed people. But he couldn't exactly ignore the piercing hawk-like stare he was enduring.

"Quit looking at me like that," John spat.

"How do you know I'm looking at you?"

"I can feel it…just like I can feel the judging stares from the 'sophisticated youth' surrounding us." The air-quotes were fairly obvious.

"Is that why you're so hesitant?"

John looked inquisitively at Sherlock. "What?"

"To touch me," John felt his heart skip a beat. Sherlock continued, "I expected more from you, John. I didn't think you were one to be so conventionally-minded."

"I am not!" John cried petulantly, quite offended. He gripped his friend's bony hips once again and gave an emphatic, "See."

_Oh._

Sherlock smirked, the bastard. He bent his knees and crushed his groin to John's, rubbing himself against the cloth of John's jeans then stepped back and traced a figure eight with his right hip. John gaped like a fish out of water. He was certainly not expecting _that_ but he also wasn't expecting his own hands to graze the thin material of Sherlock's shirt and for them to rest on the man's crescent waist.

It felt strange, what with the height-difference, but Sherlock spent most of the time with knees bent and eyes parallel to John's, who's gaze was struggling to remain fixed. At one point Sherlock ran his hands through his mess of curls and opened his mouth slightly, his bent arms jutting out like wings and nearly taking out an eye. It looked like he was replicating that of an overly dramatic woman in the throes of an orgasm. John's cock twitched with approval.

Sherlock dropped close to the floor and snaked upward against John, who was still gripping the lanky man's shirt, incredulous to the fact that this was _actually happening._

John knew he was bisexual and knew he had absolutely no problem with touching another man. John just thought Sherlock would never have been interested in the slightest, and may have hated him if he propositioned. He really didn't know how to read Sherlock properly, apparently.

John's hands wandered down the curve Sherlock's back and gripped the small, round arsecheeks that greeted them. He began to fondle them with inter—okay, it was more like desperation.

Sherlock gave a hearty chuckle, the sound rumbling throughout John's body. His long arms flung around John's neck possessively.

Sherlock's hips were moving in a perfect pendulum-like state before John and John was hypnotized. He finally tore away from those show-stealing hips and managed to look into Sherlock's eyes. He noted a gorgeous, come hither expression and he had to gulp to sate the dryness of his throat. His eyes traveled down pinkish, plump lips, which were slightly pursed. John wanted to eat them up greedily and savour them but, instead, he cleared his throat and said, "Where the hell did you learn to dance like this?"

Sherlock leaned in and growled into John's ear, "Nowhere. I just observed."

"Right. Of course you did," John said shakily. He really should have known.

The music picked up in pace and Sherlock spun around abruptly, adeptly in the small space. He positioned his backside onto John's clothed cock, which was now harder than a tonne of bricks. There was no doubt Sherlock felt John's (rather large, thanks) excitement poking into the crease of his adorable little arse. John's breath hitched, and he forgot the reason they had come to the club in the first place. He really didn't give a flying fuck. _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ was dancing like a whore _all over John_ and he absolutely loved it…probably more than anything in the world.

Sherlock pushed back violently into John's erection, John thrust forward and slid his hands down two sinewy thighs. Sherlock rested his hands atop John's obscenely steady ones and they rocked together in unison, grinding into each other. John's heart raced.

He resisted crawling over and massaging the cloth blocking Sherlock's cock from his hand just so he could see what other kind of luck he'd been blessed with but he stopped himself so he could inspect the man's body first. He traced the outline of Sherlock's figure methodically—from hips to waist to chest. The man had _curves_ for god's sake and they were coupled with beautifully taut muscles.

John held on for dear life as Sherlock bent double then snapped upwards, his torso undulating until he was erect once again.

John's hands traveled up the front of Sherlock's body, shamelessly grazing his friend's equally hard cock and rested his hands on hard, protruding pecs. He rubbed the excitement of Sherlock's nipples, his hands moistening from the amount of sweat the man was secreting. Sherlock leaned his neck back like a ballet dancer as he moaned loudly with pleasure. John couldn't help but salivate all over the man's graceful, pale, neck as he blurted out, "I think I'm going to need you to do that move again, preferably naked and in my bedroom."

Sherlock turned around, licked his lips and smiled. "It would be my pleasure." He dipped John and kissed him passionately, mussing his hair and pushing an eager tongue into his mouth.

"Fucking queens!" John was sure he heard someone shout. "Your shithole club is down the block! You're lost!" someone else jeered.

This made Sherlock kiss John harder, deeper, grunting with animalistic ardour. John babbled mindlessly into Sherlock's ear about how he would like to fuck him, hard, with no reservations—how he would like to drive into Sherlock until he was screaming his name in a fit of ecstasy.

They continued dancing for what felt like seconds, but it was hours that passed them by. Finally, the DJ finished his last song and everyone scattered off the dance floor. John let out an exasperated breath.

Sherlock checked his mobile the moment he and John were outside.

**_Got our man. Thanks._**

**_-GL_**

"Shit, I completely forgot about the suspect. I was, uh, kind of—"

"Distracted?" Sherlock said smugly.

"Yes. Exactly. How did Lestrade manage to get him?" John said embarrasedly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist, pressing himself chest to chest with the taller man. He smiled with new found adoration for his ridiculously attractive flatmate.

"I texted Lestrade the address of this club the moment you spotted our target."

"Oh." A pause. "Wait, how could you have done that? There's no way you could have texted that quickly."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said quietly, and tried unsuccessfully to hail a cab.

It was John's turn to narrow his eyes and observe Sherloc. It was quiet for several moments as Sherlock cursed himself for missing the cab. Then John realized something. Sherlock Holmes would never let a criminal run away in order to _dance._ "You're lying."

"Pardon?"

"This whole thing, the club, the suspect—you set it up didn't you? You wouldn't just let a criminal escape without a fight."

"Don't be ridiculous. We were trapped in the crowd."

"You're the ridiculous one! I don't know, Sherlock, but I feel like you've just seduced me."

Sherlock let out a singular, brusque laugh, whirled around and stepped forward. John could feel the hot breath of his friend above him. "Seduced? I don't think so. I courted you, John. There's a difference."

"Courted me!" John repeated hysterically. "We aren't animals, Sherlock!"

Sherlock tutted. "We might as well be. I've read up on the topic on the internet, and thought I'd give it a go. Male birds dance for their prospective mates—they use the intricacies and passion of dance to garner the approval of whoever wants to be theirs. Sounds familiar to what just happened between us, right?" He traced John's cheekbone lovingly. "You really are smarter than you look."

"Gee, thanks." John thought about it for a moment and let what Sherlock just said sink in. "So you just courted me. Like a bird—this is insane." John shook his head in disbelief.

"Well, it worked didn't it?"

"Yeah, Christ's sake it worked like a _charm. _Not that you needed to 'court' me because I would have willingly said yes if you'd simply ask. But, no. Sherlock Holmes never does anything simply."

Sherlock beamed. He leaned down and gave John a peck on the lips, and his pocket vibrated.

**_How'd it go? You get your prince charming?_**

**_-GL_**

Before Sherlock could close the screen, John was peering over his shoulder.

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Don't tell me Lestrade was even in on it."

Sherlock looked away coyly. "Possibly."

"You crafty, gorgeous bastard," John said affectionately.

Sherlock smirked and ignored the comment. "Now why don't we go home and I'll show you what else I can do?"

"God, yes, sounds fantastic." John pushed Sherlock aside and eagerly hailed a cab. Talking about courtship of the feathered sorts was lovely and all, but John much rather preferred to speak about the birds and the bees.

* * *

8D I apologize for that last line. I couldn't resist putting it in there.

This was originally for a prompt at the Kinkmeme that said, "Sherlock and John at a concert in the mosh pit or at a club surrounded by people, trying to solve a case but they can't move because of the crowd so they just get into it and start dancing together.

Don't ask, I just have this image in my head and it makes me stupid happy."

It spiraled a bit into something a tad different. Reviews are appreciated! Thank you for reading!


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